Fragments & Shards
by Shattersoul
Summary: Shattersoul's personal storage for half-baked stories, outtakes, entertaining errors, challenge entries, and fledgling stories. Updated sporadically. Rated T for potential absurdity.
1. Concept: Mana

**Hello!**  
I've decided to put up a separate "story" up, mostly misc fragments of possible stories I could work on.

I will not be updating this very often, as this is more or less an infrequent thing that I do when I'm bored.

If a fragment receives enough positive feedback, I might fully commit to creating a story about it (although it'd still be infrequent, and I'll most likely end up building a framework anyway).

For the record, a majority of the stories I'll be posting here will be crossovers. Almost all of the stories will involve OCs of varying power levels.

So with no further ado, let's start this off with a bang.

 **Edit:**

I've decided to use this "Story" for my concept work, although a majority of it at first will be my Danny Phantom OC, and if I come up with another one sometime soon, perhaps some work on that too.

3/4 of the work in here is concept, and will either be worked into a story, or be kept as an amusing note in my works for my characters. If anything, it might be interesting to see how a character evolves. I'll be putting an author's note at the bottom, which might be edited later, explaining what exactly I've changed, and what makes me laugh the most about my old work.

 **Second edit:**

A majority of my work is now on Deviantart, under the name ReaverSivinoth. Some day I might write a story involving this character, but her personality is still under construction. I'm not entirely sure where on the scale of stable to absolutely psychotic she should land: it seems to fluctuate wildly during her characterizations.

 **Third Edit:**

 _This character is actually the prototype for Annabelle Cain, the mother of my Harry Potter OC._

* * *

 ** _Mana: Creation_**

 _"So tell me little girl. Before I kill you, do you have any last words?"_

 _The gun in my vision comes closer. The hand holding it slowly cocks the hammer of the pistol, its owners grinning face the only part of him still visible._

 _"None? Well that's a shame. I suppose that's what you get for having the family you have, no? You and your stinking thief of a father. But I suppose your family is full of thieves."_

 _Instantly, the killer's hand whips to the side, and his firearm reports thrice. Three cracks of a shot, three screams, three sounds of something wet impacting the floor. I know that I should feel grief, but somehow, every part of me is dead. My emotions are absent, having long since fled along with my hope of being rescued._

 _"Well… I suppose at this point, it's more of a 'was' full of thieves. So how's about it. Those last words?"_

 _No words come to my mouth, but only one thought fills my mind._

 _I am about to die. My family is dead. Nothing more will matter any more… no matter what the result of this is, my life is over. There is no coming back. And with a blink, something inside me snaps._

 _I hadn't resisted at all, during my capture. But now… there was nothing left to hold me back. As stealthily as possible, I grab the nearest thing, and swing it towards the murderer. The criminal. The one who I knew would kill me where I stood._

 _The object impacts bone. I see a small spurt of blood, a tiny trickle coming from the chin of the killer._

 _"A good hit, little girl. Where was that spirit an hour ago? No matter."_

 _One final report of his weapon. A feeling of pain, directly between my eyes. The darkening of my vision, the smell of my own blood._

 _"Time's up. You lose." His voice is punctuated with the sound of his gun slowly being reloaded._

 _I desperately raise my hands to my head, patting for my wound. I find a hole, two inches deep, gushing blood. My body slowly stops responding to my frantic orders, my vision darkening even further, my other senses disappearing in but moments. The last thing I remember is the ground, coming closer. And then darkness. But above it all, there is a single wish._

 _I wish that I could have another chance. I wish that I could be someone else._

 _I wish that I could begin anew._

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It is silent inside of the ancient tower, its usual sole occupant currently out doing business.

The air begins to shimmer with overwhelming power, and the sound of ripping begins to fill the air. Moments later, a gash, a tear in reality itself begins to form. And from the gash spews a creature.

The creature is human, appearing in the form of a man in his late twenties. His form is obviously unstable, with sparks of power floating off like the embers of a dying fire. It slowly raises itself to its feet, stumbling twice as its once-mighty strength fails it for the first time in a decade.

 _"I can't survive like this."_ murmurs the creature to itself, as it glances up and down its new, unwelcome form. _"My body is damaged too much to repair."_

The sparks are appearing quicker now, and the creature's fear continues to rise.

 _"I need a body. And quickly."_ it fumes. _"Do I go out and kill… No. That isn't... I did this to stop the killing. To stop..."_

The creature clenches and unclenches its fist rapidly in anger as it begins to pace the room.

 _"A corpse then. And it has to be fresh and, hopefully, reasonably intact."_ it concludes. _"I have only enough energy to do this once though… I'm running out of time."_

Familiar runes of energy begin to circle an area in front of the creature as it carefully chants to itself, its full focus turned to the casting of the spell that could possibly save its life.

The gateway opens, and discharges a form from within, which lands face down with a lifeless thud. The creature approaches the body hesitantly, praying that he chose correctly. The body is a young teen, female. Her platinum blonde hair is matted, caked in blood and grime, and her clothes are not much better off.

 _"Besides the fact you appear to have not cleaned yourself in weeks, you seem reasonably intact"_ mutters the creature. _"I don't see how you could have died."_

Carefully, the creature flips over the body.

The front of the body is not much better. The blood and grime staining her clothes was also caked upon her face. The only clean parts of her face outlined portions of her face like ritualistic markings: spots which the creature knows were caused by the body's tears.

The body's eyes were an autumn brown, and frozen in a look of desperation, of begging, of shattered hopes. The eyes stared at the creature balefully, as if the body they were attached to were begging for the creature for another chance. To be let free.

The creature reacts unlike anything he had done in a long time. With shame. It continues to stare at the body, as its body becomes translucent.

 _"This could have been one of my victims… from long ago."_ it speaks, its voice low, heavy with emotion. _"Looking back… Was this the face they always stared back at me with?"_

The creature places a hand against the body, starting at the chin and brushing upwards. He pauses as he touches her hair, and begins to her bangs upwards. Below the bangs, a deep, bloody hole stares back at him.

 _"So this is how you were ended. A single shot to the head. Quick, efficient, brutal. Judging from the blood… I'd say you died about five hours ago."_

The creature wastes no time reaching into the wound to retrieve the bullet. Its long fingers extend even longer, and with a practised efficiency, the bullet is removed.

 _"I'd stitch you up… but my medical kit is still back on the other side. And I don't know if I'd be able to survive going back, while not fully recovered. Most certainly not like this."_

The creature chuckles darkly. _"I'm not able to go back there even if I try. After I pulled THAT stunt, I doubt I'm ever going to be able to try again."_

 _"I suppose you'll just have to do."_

The creature's body is transparent as it begins casting one final spell. The runes circle the body once, twice, and three times, before the entire circle erupts with power. And then, the creature is gone, leaving behind only the corpse.

A strange glow fills the room as the corpse's wound begins to knit back together.

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The inside of the corpse's mind is a mess.

The creature is floating amidst it all, trying its best to locate what used to be the corpse's memories.

Although some would believe that a person only has a mind while alive, the creature knew otherwise. Even though it was impossible to communicate with the dead, it was NOT impossible to delve a corpse's brain, to search for an echo of who they used to be.

It takes the creature a minute to find what it is looking for: a simulacrum of the corpse, floating in the void. The creature pokes the echo, and awaits a response.

"I couldn't save them." whispers the echo. "I wish that I could have another chance."

The creature turns its head in curiosity as the echo continues.

"I wish that I could be someone else. I wish that I could begin anew."

The creature nods, satisfied with what it has seen. It grabs the shadow, and begins to direct power into it. The sound of a heartbeat begins to fill the air, intermingled with the familiar whisper of scrambled thoughts.

The simulacrum begins to appear more and more solid, before it recoils in shock.

"Am… am I alive? How...? I… I saw myself die." the echo questions. "Did… did you do this?"

The creature grins as it extends its hand to shake. "I had something that you needed, and you have something that I need. I'm here to offer you a deal."

The echo recoils slightly as confusion spreads across her face. "You can bring people back to life?"

"For a given definition of life. " The creature continues to smile. "You see, if this is to work, we'll need to stick together, form a bond of sorts. If we grow strong enough, it might even be possible for us to split apart again. However… even if we split, you won't be human any more."

The girl pauses, before responding with defiance. "I don't care. I begged for a second chance, and I'd be an idiot to pass this up. What are the conditions, and what will I become."

"The conditions, are that I will be granting you some of my powers, but in return, you'll need to allow me to feed every once in awhile. About… once every few weeks will do fine." a smirk is plastered across the creature's face. Its body is no longer transparent, and has begun to become more and more solid with every second. "Also, you're probably going to go berserk when it's time, or whenever you feel the need to draw on that power. It'll make you stronger, faster, and deadlier, but it will fill your mind with the urge to feed."

"Feed? Like a vampire?" mutters the girl. "Please tell me I'm not undead, or something."

"Vampires would be cliche, anyway. No. Because of my… particular power set, you'll be turning into… something else. Your form will be fluid, but it will take serious effort to change more than your hair color at first. This should stabilise over time, after you gather enough energy to allow me to reactivate my power. It's just a quirk of who I am that requires you to feed on energy."

"And who are you, anyway?" asks the girl.

"You can refer to me as… Cyrus. What is yours?"

"I… think I should get another name. My old one should die with my old self."

"Fine." states Cyrus. "Your new name is Mana. Seems ironic enough to work for me… and as for a last name… Let's pull out something random. Faust? Nah. Too obvious… How about… Nimune? Sounds like a real name, and I don't feel like going with the tried-and-true method of just using 'Smith', 'Jones', or 'Adams'."

"Mana… Nimue..." utters the girl. "It'll do."

"So. Mana, I think it's time we get out of here."

"Where exactly… am I? I… haven't seen the area around me… since I was dead the whole time…"

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out… in about a year or two. All I'm willing to say, is that it's a good idea for me to get us out of here as soon as possible."

There was a quiet affirmation between the two, before Mana finds herself on the floor of a tower. Rubbing her eyes blearily (and wincing from the pain of them being so dry), she quickly takes a view of the room. The interior of the tower resembles the guts of a tremendous grandfather clock, except that a few of the gears appear to be floating, and everything was tinted green. Several amulets hang from a peg on the wall, their faces green and black gears, edged with bronze,

 _"Take two of the amulets."_ directs Cyrus. Mana obliges, grabbing one in each hand and giving one of them a quick examination. The necklace seems gaudy and altogether not valuable, but Mana wasn't ready to anger the person responsible for her continued existence.

 _"I'm going to be in control a bit."_ comes Cyrus's voice, before Mana suddenly feels a tightness in her limbs. She doesn't bother resisting as her hands moved free of her will, magical runes beginning to form around her as she gestures and chants in a voice that is not her own. The voice… Cyrus's voice continues steadily,

A tearing sound fills the air as Mana's vision momentarily swims, before blacking out completely.

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Mana's vision returns, revealing to her a surging river. She wastes no time throwing herself into the water, desperate to clean the blood and filth from herself, to wash away what was left of her abandoned life, to cleanse herself of what she used to be completely. She resurfaces, before flopping onto the sore to dry. The amulet she had taken earlier was gone.

"Where… am I?" asks Mana, unsure of how best to communicate with her… copilot.

 _"Outside of a particular little town. All I can say, is that here, you definitely won't go hungry."_ joked Cyrus.

Mana sighs as she stares at the town before her. A new life to experience, and despite what she may have given up (she still didn't completely trust Cyrus), she was alive again. Alive, and (for the most part), free.

She wanders towards the town, to experience what exactly had brought her here. To see the sights, and to rediscover her own purpose.

* * *

 **A/N:** Cyrus was originally an OC of mine for Harry Potter, a cunning Slytherin spell-caster who was known for making up his own spells, being an orphan, and having a specific hatred of Dementors. For some bizarre reason, I decided to have him travel through time to possess Mana's Corpse.

This situation was so extremely contrived, that I immediately backtracked. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I ended up keeping the origin, but tossing out the reincarnation, then reworking Cyrus to be her boyfriend instead, because I found the idea of a demon-hunting sarcastic archmage being attracted to a semi-psychotic demon hilarious.

And now the two are mentally inseparable.

* * *

 **Yeah, I've decided to upload the rest of my concept work.**

Unfortunately, a majority of it is either unfinished, or abandoned. I didn't really put much effort into these, but it did give me a framework to improve the character on.

* * *

 **The next piece is technically a sequel to the last one. However, I lost interest halfway through, due to various idiotic reasons.**

* * *

 **Mana: Hunger**

It would be a lie to say that the events that occurred in the first few weeks of Mana's "life" were boring.

The town that Cyrus had brought her to was an absolute powder keg: even if the occupants couldn't feel it, the place was practically saturated with supernatural energy. She could feel that what little stability this town still possessed was only moments away from being shattered beyond repair. Occasionally, a particularly wry spirit would slip away, and cause a ruckus, but all of them will primal. Beastial. Mindless.

Mana instead had spent a large amount of time trying to settle into the town.

Although she did her best to ignore her past life, some of her own skills shone through the block she had created against herself; her previous talents as a pickpocket had returned with a vengeance. Any attempt to convince herself to stop were immediately stymied by the sheer necessity of theft. She had not a dollar to her name, and the occupants of the town were nothing if not blind.

It was for that reason that Mana now sat at a bus stop, eating the cheapest food she could find. Mana had always been frugal: regardless of where her… family's wealth had come from (or who it came from), she had always been taught to treat every dollar like it was her last. Thus, she had before her whatever she could get from the clearance aisle from the nearby grocery store that was still edible.

Although her diet was a mess, she has been doing fine for about twenty-five days, and has gathered enough money to begin fabricating an identity. Unfortunately, today, the food before her had no effect upon her hunger. A near insatiable urge to kill had begun to fill her mind, whispering for blood and death.

"What… What's happening to me…?" she whispered to herself, knowing that her… associate would answer.

"You're going to need to feed soon… I'd only give you about three days before you go berserk" came Cyrus's voice.

"And… How would I go about doing that?" continued Mana, who had begun to glance around in case anyone was watching her talk to herself.

"Well… there's two ways. Either you can feed off of a human…" Cyrus began to say.

"How about no." interrupted Mana.

"... the other option is to feed off of a ghost." muttered Cyrus.

"F… feed off of a ghost?" Mana sputtered. "You mean those weird green things that show up every once in awhile? Those things sure as heck ain't going into my mouth!"

"Relax." assured Cyrus. "You don't need to eat them, per say. You just need to kill one."

"But how would I kill o-"

"Just find one first. After we find it, I'll show you how to kill it."

"But aren't they already-"

"Yes. However, they've still got will, and they've still got power. Those are the true things that we feed upon."

Mana stopped arguing as she tracked down one of the green spectres. Her search led her to an alleyway, thankfully out of sight from the road. The ghost floated, seemingly obvious to its surroundings, and resembled a green monkey.

"So I've found one. Now what?"

"Don't resist."

Mana winced involuntarily as she felt herself lose control again. Moments later, she watched herself reach to her side, retrieving a brutal-looking waved knife, its blade stained red. She ducked low, getting ready to charge the ghost. In a second, she was directly beside the ghost, knife flashing as its brutal shape flew through the air. The blade sliced the side of the ghost, causing it to be knocked out of its reverie. The now-irate monkey hissed at Mana in displeasure.

A second later, Mana's hand were a blur as she sliced at the enraged ghost. She watched herself backflip (seriously, backflip?) away from the monkey is it counterattacked, before continuing her assault. Strangely, every blow seemed to cause the ghost to fade more and more, as if she was somehow…

"Am… Am I doing that?" whispered Mana.

"More than you'd assume. Who taught you how to fight?" replied Cyrus. His voice was curious, but still apathetic.

"I uhh… was a street thief before my… uhh... end." admitted Mana. "Though I've never been able to pull off a backflip like that before."

"It should be spent soon, this creature is rather weak. It will serve our purposes though."

Eventually, the ghost began to slow its assault, and then stop altogether. Seeing his opportunity, Cyrus does not hesitate to plunge the blade down to the hilt into the ghost. The ghost's form further destabilizes, and then finally dissipates into ash.

"Will every feeding be like that?" asked Mana, who was glad to at least not feel sore from her brawl.

"Only until we have enough power to do it faster." admitted Cyrus. "The faster way isn't as efficient, but it only takes a second to harvest a ghost, rather than that… long brawl we just had."

Mana nodded, and realised that her hunger had begun to fade: it was still there, but much less pressing. "One more, I'm assuming." she commented.

"One more."

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As the second spirit disintegrated before her, Mana fell to the ground, clutching her chest.

"What… What's… happening?" she sputtered.

"Those two were enough for now. I've gathered enough now to reactivate some…" Cyrus began, before his words were suddenly drowned out by pure fury.

"OF COURSE HE HAD TO DO THAT BEFORE I LEFT." screamed Cyrus. Mana clutched her head in agony as Cyrus's rage pounded against her mind.

"Is something wrong?" asked Mana though gritted teeth.

"HE DESTROYED MY POWERS WHEN I FLED!" ranted Cyrus.

* * *

 **A/N:** About here, I realised that having Mana with no powers naturally was idiotic. I also realised that if she went back in time, she would get along fabulously with past-Cyrus. This is where the mental shipping between two of my characters began. The hunger and consumption, however, I kept.

* * *

 **I'm keeping this one. It explains one of her more... Mary-sue-esque powers.**

* * *

 **Mana: Feign**

The hit had been much worse than I had expected.

And I had already expected the worst, because the beam pierced all the way through me, exiting out my back.

I glanced towards my enemy. He had no way of knowing what I was, or who I was.

And if I tried to escape, he'd track me down.

No, it was time to feign the dead.

I began to release flecks of energy, the overall image aided by my memories of my own death, supplemented by Cyrus's own near death experience.

Slowly, my form began to fleck away, as I faded, appearing weaker. I collapsed to the ground, hitting it hard, and struggled back to my feet, feigning intense pain and strain, before collapsing again.

Finally, I let my form go, releasing myself into particles, which flew away, out of sight.

* * *

 **A/N:** I don't really have any comments for this one. Only that it basically means she's either an immortal coward, or a mediocre-durability metahuman.

* * *

 **I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking when I wrote this one. It was my first attempt to introduce Mana to the DP cast.**

* * *

 **Mana: Identity**

Within a week at arriving at her new town (which she had finally identified as "Amity Park", although she wasn't entirely sure WHERE it was), Mana had managed to forge herself enough legal documents to enroll at the nearest school. Although she was hesitant, Cyrus was quick to warn her that the cover story granted to her for being at school would greatly outweigh any sort of penalty that would occur from it.

Mana wasn't sure just how good a benefit having a cover story would be, considering just how unenjoyable the experience was.

She quickly found her niche among the creeps and the freaks, although she herself wasn't even social enough to interact with her 'peers'. Instead, she spent time alone, at the spare, rundown, extra table, going through books on the town's history.

Today was shaping up to be similar to similar to the rest.

"Hey… do you mind if we sit here?" speaks a quiet, nervous voice.

Mana lowers her book warily to reveal a group of fellow outcasts. Each of them is carrying a tray of horrible cafeteria food (Mana had long since decided that the food here was inedible, even for her, and had chosen instead to fast during school hours), and is looking at her expectantly.

Mana begins to open her mouth, before Cyrus cuts her off. "Let them sit with you. These three… are special in a way."

Shrugging her shoulders, Mana gestures to the table. "Fine, although I'm not sure why you've never asked before."

One of the three, this one apparently African-American with green eyes, and wearing the absolute ugliest hat Mana had ever seen, leans forward. "Well, I've been hoping to ask you out, but I was afraid that you hadn't settled in yet."

Mana gags slightly. There always has to be one of these people in every group…

"TUCKER!" screams the second one, this one dressed up as a goth. She's got purple eyes.

"Sorry about Tucker, … uhh… what's your name, anyway?" states the third. Black hair, blue eyes (seriously, what's with the color of eyes in this town?), and all-around looking like he doesn't really have his own theme.

"Mana." states the uncomfortable victim of Tucker's attention. "And no, I'm not interested. I'm gay."

"Huh?" whispers Cyrus.

"Huh! Are you gonna hit on Sam, then?" chides Tucker, who has begun gesturing towards the goth girl, now identified as Sam.

"Well that wasn't the WORST half-truth I've ever come up with…" mutters Mana, who had begun to blush slightly at the attention.

"Seriously, what?" returns Cyrus.

"Well you're a guy, and I'm pretty sure that you've got more effect on my mind than I do. So if you were straight, it's a pretty good idea that I'm either gay, or just bi." whispers Mana, as quietly as she can.

Which apparently wasn't quiet enough.

"Who are you whispering to? Is it a ghost?" chatters Sam excitedly.

"We'll talk later." promises Cyrus.

"Uhh… No one. Anyway, ghosts aren't real." deflects Mana.

"Lies." states Cyrus plainly. It's enough to stun Mana for a few seconds.

"Are… you alright there, Mana?" asks the second boy.

"I'm… fine. Besides, we did a pretty poor job at introducing ourselves just now. Can we please just go around the table and do it right this time?" answers Mana.

"Mana Nimue."

"Sam Manson."

"Tucker Foley."

"Danny Fenton."

"Jackpot." whispers Cyrus.

They all shake hands, and soon enough are seated at the table. They mostly eat in silence (although Mana still doesn't eat anything)

* * *

 **A/N:** Of all of the things to survive this draft, her urge to troll people is probably the only thing. That, and absurdist humor.

* * *

 **This was the first piece I wrote about this character.**

Yes, this is proto-character design.

* * *

 **Mana: Introspection**

It's dark.

All around me, I hear the sound of tramping feet. Of crunching stone below the boots of thousands of warriors, of invaders. Of trained warriors who live for battle. Who died for battle. Who came back, when their lust for bloodshed allowed them to sleep no longer.

I hear them come closer. Some break into groups, and but a handful begin to move towards me. I am silent, I am aware.

I chuckle as the feet come ever closer. They aren't the only creature who still lives only due to bloodshed. They are not the only creature whose purpose is to kill, consume, and grow stronger.

As soon as I hear the first door open, I finally begin to move. Leather armor, bonded to skin, springs to existence. Soon, I am wrapped in a carapace: absolutely useless in a fight, but it conceals my identity well. It envelops me, leaving only my brown eyes exposed. Seconds later, the blade appears.

Its blade is over three feet long: a jagged, ugly mockery of bastard sword, emblazoned in spikes. It's an evil weapon, a weapon no human should ever use.

I grab it, sending shivers through my body.

I can only smile as I hear growls of confusion, only feel a surge of familiarity, hunger, and violence as the blade touches my palm, as its curse spreads through the air around me. I can feel the confusion of the creatures nearby as their vision swims, and a droning sound fills their ears. My eyes blacken, my body goes numb, as all of my senses merge into one, an unbreakable sense of knowing exactly what I look towards, my ears only receiving the sound of the essence of my enemies. Seconds later, I greet my foes; blade in hand, voice both whispering and screaming, my song of murder and death.

No longer do I see in colors, in names, or in appearance. All I see is blood. Essence. Power. A dozen entities, marked as weak, puny, disposable, unknown, all underlined as "Threat". Seconds later, the entities are gone, cut down by the sheer force of my hunger. Their bisected bodies decompose immediately into a viscous ooze, coating the ground in a thick goop, with what used to serve as their binding power still floating above. I barely take the time to gather their fading essence into a sphere, before shoving the energy into storage for later.

Feeding will happen later. For now, I am needed elsewhere. For there are enemies to be slain before the day is through.

The butcher has awoken.

* * *

It had gone so well, too.

I wasn't sure how many I had killed, how many of the minions I had utterly destroyed before it all came crashing down.

It seems that at least someone has a clue what they were doing.

Their regular weapons weren't affecting me at all as I cleaved through their ranks, until I came across one of them holding a different sort of weapon. One that looked more solid than the others.

And of course, the one weapon that was different was made of iron. God dammit.

So now, I'm laying on my back, literally floating in a pool of ectoplasm, with a spear made of iron stuck in my shoulder. If I could, I'd get up and just pull out the damn thing, but unfortunately, whoever decided to gear out a few of these minions with purified iron spears. If it were anything like the regular iron crap I've had to deal with over the years, I'd be winded, yeah, but I'd be back up to full strength in a day, not to mention I'd be able to just consume some of my collected essence to bounce back right away.

But noooo, they had to use purified, hand-worked iron. This crap completely paralyzes me on touch, and I could FEEL the minion laughing at me when it stuck the head of the spear into me. And it's not like the minion had a mind either! The spear didn't care that I was wearing armor, not like it'd matter, since the armor is my own powers, anyway, but still! I just got poked by a goddamn metal stick! I'VE SURVIVED BEING IMPALED, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I mean, at least I managed to kill the smarmy bastard as I went down, but I could still see it grinning as it melted.

And now, I'm pretty much helpless. Hopefully someone will find me soon, and yank this stupid spearhead out of my shoulder. Normally, if it were less pure, (or at least impure enough to not fully paralyze me), I'd be able to grab some cloth or something and yank it out, but unfortunately, this time, I'm completely screwed. Hopefully, this time it isn't barbed. Oh who am I kidding, of course it's barbed. The ass who keeps arming these minions is doing this specifically to spite me.

It hurts too much to sleep.

So I guess all I can do is wait.

* * *

Yknow, one of these days I should get myself a real set of armor.

Not like it'll do much. Something about me being what I am makes wearing armor hard. Not hard as in heavy, or hard as in effectiveness, but rather... it just seems so restrictive. Not to mention my absorbed powers seem to reject any sort of mundane armor... If I don't focus, anything from ceramic armor, to a stinking bulletproof vest will slide right off of me as soon as I start a fight. I mean, I am glad that I go semi-incorporeal when I start fighting, which is really handy for minimizing the amount of hits I take... assuming that none of the hits are from an iron weapon. If it's an iron weapon, I'm screwed.

I mean, armor would be handy to block the iron spears that I somehow manage to keep attracting (It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside that I forced them to diversify their troops and use subpar weapons just to deal with me!), but at the same time, even if I could keep it on, it makes my changeling abilities stop working. I mean, it wouldn't seem like much... except my rapid healing is ALSO a changeling ability... and apparently anything heavier than a gaudy bracer is considered armor...

Maybe I should convince the eggheads to make me a force field in a bracer or something... But then again, their specialty is anti-ghost, and I'm already almost entirely immune to that sort of thing. What really screws me over is solid, human-forged iron weapons, but... well...

If I had a field like that, it'd be like walking around in a giant hamster ball at all times. Not only would I look absurd, but because of just how much I move around when fighting... I'd be a liability for my team as well. And that's not even including the butcher... I'd probably be so berserk from being unable to physically strangle my foes, that I'd probably end up just crushing them into paste with the barrier, at least until it died and I could finally get my hands on their remains.

I mean, the force field could be skin-bonded, but if I did that, it would again lock me into my current form. Sure, I'd be able to heal, but the sheer amount of power that it would take to make a force-field that exact would be irrationally expensive, not to mention just impractical to lug around.

There has to be other ways to affect iron some way. Perhaps a magnet... Oh no. Yeah, no magnet. I can already imagine just how devastating having a strong magnet stuck to me would be. Pointed metal chasing me? Pointed IRON chasing me? Yeah. How about no. Note to self. If I ever get attached to a magnet, either escape immediately, or brace for pain.

I don't have a fear of getting stabbed with needles. I have a fear of being stabbed with nails. And it's not even like it even needs to be sharp: once, when I was being chased by government goons (long story, unimportant, but worth mentioning that they were both idiots), they threw a BLUNT iron bar at me, and it sunk a half inch into my back before it finally hit resistance and stopped. I mean, it was barely even 20% iron (if it were more, it probably would have stunned me), but even that was enough to stop me from phasing through walls or blinking away. I had to have someone else bail me out.

And it seems the effect the iron has on me is directly proportional to the purity. Anything over 10% is enough to stop a lot of my evasive abilities (and gives me a serious headache), but after 30%, they begin to paralyze more and more of my body. Yeah I know, bigger or purer chunk of iron, bigger area of effect, but even impure pieces of iron alloy are enough in a large enough quantity to seriously mess with me. I learned that first hand during the staple-gun incident. (For the record, the staple-gun incident never happened, nor did the people who were responsible ever exist. At least according to the investigators later).

But hand-forged, pure iron? This stuff is nasty. I've been hit by arrows tipped by this stuff, and it seems anything that weighs more than a deck of cards is enough to shut me down completely until it's removed. Even worse, it's enough to actually hurt me, in addition to stunning me; normally it takes two shots in the same general area to cause harm, (or an energy blast hitting an affected area... eesh...), but this stuff does it all: weakens, stuns, paralyzes, and can kill, all in one neat little package. I'm just glad that they haven't figured out how to make a hand-forged pure iron bullet yet...

* * *

Oh hey, someone's finally coming down. It looks like a human. I mean, I'd say something, but with the whole paralysis thing... I mean, it's not even like I have my scary sword any more, the damn thing disintegrates as soon as it leaves my grasp, anyway.

Hello. If you wouldn't mind pulling this spearhead out of my shoulder, that'd make my day just great.

... Really? It's just ectoplasm. Most of it's dried anyway. And it's not like that it's the ectoplasm of anyone we care about. Not like I'd end up taking an impromptu bath in THEIR ectoplasm anyway: generally, they just sorta stayed to themselves.

Gah. Well, that was uncomfortable, but at least the spearhead's out now. The wet feeling on my shoulder is all over the sleeve of my tunic now.

The human's looking at my shoulder now. What? Have you never seen clear blood before?

Of course not. I'm one of a kind. (Not to mention that I'm STILL more human than the resident hero of this town...) The only (well… there's more, but I'm sure as hell not telling anyone not already in on it) thing that's different about me, is that there's no iron in my blood. I mean, there's definitely iron in my system, but it all goes to my liver. It's a bit like alcohol, actually. A little is fine, but too much will kill me dead.

Well... Not so much kill me as just put me in the hospital for a while. I had a hell of a time in the hospital last time... Although at least the hospital was nice enough to not reveal that my blood was clear, my liver was full of iron, of all things, and my wounds closed immediately without stitches... Or at least they probably would have been nice, but 'unfortunately' for them, all of their records of that day were 'mysteriously' deleted from their database the next morning. That added to the fact that I still had enough control to force myself into a different form before I completely collapsed… They've got nothing on me. So for now, I mostly eat a low-iron diet. I mean, the occasional piece of red meat is great, and enjoyable, but too much, or too concentrated, and it's a bit like an allergic reaction.

Although it's not like I need to eat human food, anyway. Speaking of which, I'm hungry.

The human's staring again as I whip out the storage device I had been storing my plundered energy in. I laugh a bit. Even though the device resembles a thermos, I doubted anyone would even be crazy enough to eat out of one, let alone one that is full of what I've stuffed into it. Although, it's not like I'm really eating it with my mouth… more just absorbing it through my skin. Less eat-with-a-fork, more stick-hand-into-thermos-and-consume.

I wave off my rescuer as I wander away, hoping to regroup. I like to imagine that he enjoyed his day, truly confused about what he had just seen.

I finish my little meal, and feel refreshed. I begin to stow my now-empty device in a pocket, only to find the pocket now occupied by a wallet. Huh. Well, I guess old habits die hard, regardless of situation. Rifling through it reveals various credit cards (Meh, can't use them without a code… pass), Four half-completed free-drink coupons (Why would someone ever do this?), and about a hundred bucks in cash (Score!).

I take the cash, and begin moving back towards the person I 'borrowed' it from. Of course, I can't resist leaving them a little… present. I bend down, and scoop up one of the more solid fingers floating in the ectoplasm, and place it inside the wallet. From there, it's trivial to plant the wallet back in their pocket. All in all, this series of events took a little over two minutes. Not my best work, by a long shot.

My healing has fully kicked in now, so it's time to get back into the fight.

* * *

The battle has ended now. We won. Of course, there's a few of the warriors... I mean friends, that know who I really am. What I really am. I mean, I've played plenty of tricks on them, occasionally taking one of their forms to play a trick on the others, or occasionally covering for one when they were desperately needed elsewhere. It was a fun existence, made even more fun by the constant strife they seemed to endlessly gather towards themselves. It was like living in the center of a disaster area, which was orbited by several other disaster areas. It was complete bedlam.

I'm certain that they're glad to have my help, not like they'd be able to refuse it if they didn't want it... although I have gone soft enough to listen to them every once in awhile. I mean, never when it's something important, but when it's something trivial like saving civilians from a gigantic dragon rather than killing enemies, or hiding a family member from a psychopath (they really know how to pick accomplices and associates. These people are so trusting, that they're even willing to trust me…), I'm a good enough friend to help them out. But anything worse, and it's my game: my rules, my way. Yes, those were trivial things. Did I mention that I love the sheer chaos that surrounds these people? And that takes me back to the present. I'm sitting in front of them, unarmored in appearance, (not like armor matters, since it's all my skin anyway, and I'm just as durable 'armored' as I am while naked), soaked in dried ectoplasm.

Of course, one of them throws me a look of disgust as I saunter up: probably because I'm still caked in ghost blood. Another is giving me a look of terror. Right. Forgot one of them was an ecto-hemophobe.

One quick jaunt of in-corporeality (specifically tuned to a DIFFERENT frequency than ectoplasm… otherwise it would have just phased with me), and I'm clean again, except now there's a nice, circular puddle of dried ectoplasm dust around me. I shrug. I turn to the nearest threat, powerful, unique, target (dammit! They are my friends… not mere targets…) I turn to my nearest friend, and ask for the situation.

* * *

 **A/N:** A quick list of things that I've dropped from the character... The blade, complete psychosis, the Cold Iron vulnerability (I've changed it to just be much weaker to explosions), the eating ectoplasm straight from the thermos... And many, many more...


	2. GRIMM

_This little hook was part of a dare from a friend of mine._

* * *

 **GRIMM**

It all began with five words.

"May I become your apprentice?"

And yet, those five words

Echoed through the lands. Forever changing them

For fate, would never be the same.

* * *

It was faster than any could have imagined: Jafar, long-time advisor of the Sultan, threw a bloody insurrection, wielding unholy powers of destruction. The Sultan, unprepared for the assault, was ripped apart by powers beyond his comprehension.

It took three days for the city to fall.

And thus began the reign of darkness.

* * *

With unheard of speed, Jafar's grasp spread outwards, first on foot, then on sea, washing across the land like a black tide. City by city, they trampled underfoot the masses, erecting statues and brands in their wake.

Yet, not all was lost.

* * *

Atlantica, the City Beneath The Waves, had hastily become a haven. At the urging of Ariel, the youngest of the heirs of Atlantis, they had taken in as many of the surface dwellers as they could, protecting the innocent and the free to the best of their abilities. Although restricted to what few buildings could be constructed to remain dry inside, the surface dwellers thrived to the best of their ability, dreaming of the day when they truly could see the sun again.

* * *

Arendelle was deceptively difficult to overrun. Although the marauders were successful in the assassination of the royal family, they failed to truly overrun the country: the royal family survived through a pair of sisters. For two years, the invading army struggled against the cold and the devoted soldiers of the city, before a freak accident incited the first spark of hope the city had seen in years.

Elsa, crown princess of Arendelle, was a mage. A mage of significant power.

Now fifteen, the strong-willed princess did her best to fortify her home with what little magic she could invoke, but she could not truly stem the tide.

With heavy hearts, the people of Arendelle fled across the water to their cousin country, Corona. There, they swore their allegiance to Mother Gothel, the reigning archmage of the country, and did what they could to help protect their new home.

For five years, they have stood. For five years, they have prospered, bolstered by the magic of not only Gothel and Elsa, but also of Rapunzel, a young mage who came forward, once the harbour blockades had begun to cut into the country's meagre supplies.

* * *

A little town in France had also stood the tide far longer than expected. Although merely considered a speed bump in the path of the legion, they were halted by an unexpected complication.

The cursed prince of the town, who had long since forgotten his name, stood proud and protective in front of his people, determined to defend to the best of his ability. For four days, he stood alone, weathering the tide, before he was joined by an unlikely partner, one Gaston. Drawn to his side by a mutual hatred of magic, and people invading their town, the two held off the invading forces long enough for every civilian to flee. Then, in a final act of good faith, the duo fled into the countryside, determined to find allies to stand with them.

To protect what few innocents still remained.

* * *

Even the deep seas were not safe: a sabotage fleet lead by hired Mercenary Hooke successfully captured an artifact by the name of 'The Heart of Te Fiti'. Over the next few months, the islands began to die. With no idea of where the artifact had went, the people of the archipelago began to die out. In a final act of desperation, Moana, orphaned Chieftess, led what few people across the ocean to the mainland.

They were closely followed by Maui, the disgraced Demigod. Having failed his duty once, his eyes turned to the fleeing natives. He had failed once, but he knew he could not afford to fail once more.

* * *

China's army stood the onslaught quite effectively. But even they could not survive unchanged.

The emperor's new decree demanded the conscription of every able-bodied man and woman, an hitherto unthinkable choice. The people cried out in despair, but the emperor remained adamant. If they were wiped out, there would be nothing left to protect.

Mulan, a veteran of several battles, was one of the elite few who had survived unscathed. Chosen due to her talents, she was whisked away to what few masters still taught their craft, to learn the ways of the Sohei.

* * *

Even as the world below roiled in hatred, the Gods above were squabbling with their own problems. Hades, God of the Underworld, had finally overstepped his bounds, and had begun to encroach on the domain of Hephaestus, god of Fire. The resulting clash left the gates of the Underworld open, and and guarded. Unspeakable creatures continued to escape, turning their eyes upon the fragile world above.

Eris, goddess of Chaos, on the other hand, was busy making popcorn.

Heracles, son of Zeus, was deployed to the surface, to protect the mortals to the best of his abilities.

He merely took one look at the world below, and asked if he couldn't wrestle a hydra instead.

* * *

Scotland's once-beautiful forests had long since become a warzone. Several talented archers had taken to using the dense tree cover to make ambush attacks upon the invading army, but this was soon countered by burning trees. As casualties continued to mount, the Scotts were eventually driven from their homeland, taking what little of their culture still remained with them.

* * *

In the dungeons of Agrahbah, capital city of the new Empire, one traitor, Aladdin, lies bound.

He had been captured for freeing slaves, for sabotaging supply carts.

And he had been thrown into the dungeon over a month ago. Fed nothing but thin soup and bread.

His eyes adjusted slowly as the door opened, revealing his captor.

Clad in dark armor, the Hand of Jafar approached him, blackened scimitar gleaming in the dim light.

"So you believe yourself a hero, do you, street rat?" whispered the monster before him.

Aladdin had no words left, so he merely spat into his captor's eye.

"And yet, you believe that a hero will win. That the light shall always prevail." it continued.

Once more, Aladdin attempted to spit, but found his mouth dry, his lips parched.

"But yet, what is a hero without a little conflict?"

Aladdin could feel his manacles tightening.

"But boy, let me tell you. A hero isn't merely one who overcomes the odds."

"Someone who succeeds, despite the entire world being turned against them?"

The Hand leaned closer.

"That isn't a hero."

The Hand's scimitar reached back, readying for a swing.

"That, my boy;"

The blade raced near.

"Is a Legend."

Seeing his chance, the rebel braced himself, throwing the chains which bound him before the approaching blade. With a sickening crunch and the clatter of metal against metal, the chains were sundered. Throwing himself into a dead run, he threw himself past the Hand, determined to get free.

The Hand merely watched the boy flee, his broken wrist moving against his will behind him. As the guards turned to him for orders, he merely spoke.

"Let him go. What is victory, without a little… entertainment."

And soon, the Hand had collapsed into laughter.


	3. Secrets of Fire

_This is for a challenge: The Golden Snitch Costume Contest._

 _Particular prompt: Firefighter. (Requirements: write about a character who can manipulate an element.)_

 _For the record, Aura's an OC of mine, who I've written to be Ginny's roommate._

 _Storyline-wise, I'd say this takes place during year four._

* * *

The Gryffindor dorms were always full of interesting incidents and escapades, but today, something different was happening.

"Ouch!" cried Ginny, as she once again raised her burned fingertips to her mouth.

"No… I'm pretty sure you try and make sure the fire is about an inch _away_ from your skin." murmured Aurelia.

She couldn't understand why elemental manipulation was so _hard_! Aura was able to fling around fire around without a care in the world! And she was **sure** that she had seen fire directly contact Aura's skin, to no ill effect.

"I don't understand! You've done this so goddamn easily! Why is it so damn hard?" sputtered the redhead.

The whole thing had begun as a joke, well, more of a bet, actually.

What had started as a comment about learning new, weird kinds of magic had quickly spiraled into a desperate attempt to pick up a new method of self defense. Elemental conjuration, while relatively rare, was pretty solid as far as defense went, and was unique enough that she'd set herself apart from the pack.

Plus, Aura said that she'd try to tutor her, which was a pretty solid plus. It was good to have someone with a solid grasp on a spell to teach it, right?

It'd feel good to be able to support Harry. The Death Eaters weren't going to just fade back into obscurity. And knowing new magics would definitely give her and edge up on the competition.

Assuming she ever got that far. Right now, she was hoping to get through the lesson without permanently removing her fingerprints.

"I've got twelve years of experience, and a _**hell**_ of a lot of things going for me in this, that you don't have." chuckled Aura, as if she was telling a joke.

"I swear, if you say you sold your soul for fire magic, I'm going to slap you." murmured Ginny, as she reached for the (readily accessible) burn cream. "Seriously though, why do you even have this much burn cream?"

"You do hear me upstairs when you're off doing your thing, right?" replied Aura, pointing at the still-smouldering crater in the floor. "Runes aren't exactly the safest thing to go blind into."

"I'm good to go again." spoke Ginny, holding her hand out again.

"Okay. So… let's try doing it this way." began Aura, as she lifted her pet Salamander out of its terrarium.

Dear Merlin. In retrospect, Ginny didn't understand why she had okayed the whole thing: sure, the salamander was remarkably tame, but seriously, it was a dangerous magical creature.

Sometimes, she wondered, and dreaded what would happen if she were to ever introduce Aura to Hagrid. Would she survive? Would the school?

"Okay, so you can feel her, right?" she continued. "Try and keep the feeling in your mind. I'm convincing Cinder here to not burn you, but it should have a similar feeling to casting fire magic."

Ginny breathed in once, then let the air out slowly. "Yeah, I think I've got it."

"Okay, so just keep that in your mind. Also, close your eyes."

A minute and a half passed, before Ginny lost her patience. "I don't understand what this is supposed to accomplish. Seriously!"

"Yeah?" came the voice to her left. She turned to it, to see Aura, sitting on her bed, Salamander curled up in her lap.

First of all, ouch? Wait, if the salamander is there, then what?

Slowly, Ginny's eyes drifted back towards her hands, where a swirling ball of fire, about the size of a plum rotated in place.

"I did it!" she whispered in relief, as her shoulders slumped slightly.

"Crap! Crap! Keep your concentration!" screamed her roommate.

"What?"

Before her eyes, the even ball of fire began to widen and fluctuate, until it resembled more of a ellipse than the smooth ball it was before.

"Fucking hell! It's destabilising! If you don't want brand new third-degree burns, get rid of it! **Now**!"

In a panic, Ginny hurled the ball of rapidly-destabilising fire in a random direction, where it collided with the stone walls with a crack and a flesh of heat.

Both girls stared at the new burn mark for a moment, before turning back towards each other.

"Okay. Good start. Let's work on the stabilisation next then, right?"

Ginny groaned. It was going to be a long week.


	4. Echo

**Mocha Cookie Crumble Cake** : 1. Chocolate cake (Word: example) 2. Espresso pastry filling (Restriction: Can only include characters from before the Trio Era) 3. Espresso cookie buttercream (Genre: romance)

I don't even know if this fits the criteria.

I need to write it anyway.

Need to.

I have to.

* * *

They met like sparks to tinder, both mere fragments of a roaring fire, equal, yet opposite.

But yet, nothing lasts forever.

* * *

First year.

It had barely even been a week into the year, before the two, both alike, were at each other's throats, spewing curses and ruderies and ill intent towards one another.

Yet, when they met, that day in November, neither of the two emerged the victor.

One a Gryffindor, burning bright, heiress of an Ancient house.

The other a Slytherin, orphaned and alone, lost scion of a house long since buried.

Together they clashed, drawing one another to a duel, first on what little magic they possessed, then desperation, and then finally sheer stubbornness and unwillingness to lose.

Together, they fell, both exhausted, depleted, and together they are carted to the Hospital Wing.

The winter comes quickly, and the feeling of competition never fades, first manifesting as hatred, then as a grudging acceptance.

But yet neither is willing to compromise.

As the first year wanes, they nod towards one another, silently daring one another to be better the next year. Silently promising to set the example for the years to come.

* * *

Second Year.

Again the two clashed, once again drawing each other to exhaustion. Again, the awaken beside one another, but this time, there is no hatred.

Whether it is from disorientation of the aftereffects, or due to something else, the two part ways with a smile and a nod.

After all, what are they if not rivals?

The two rapidly find their callings, each different:

The girl, choosing to embrace the primal power of magic itself, and her path towards mastering the natural elements

The boy, determined to study and learn the intricate patterns lacing through world's most complex enchantments.

Their parting words are simple. _Be better, I will be waiting_.

* * *

Third Year.

What are once enemies, are now friends, despite what their houses say.

They meet again, and the duel lasts for minutes, neither willing to show weakness, of any kind to one another.

As they force each other to their knees, they silently share a nod, just before everything goes black.

They both awaken laughing.

The two work together now: with the boy weaving the patterns, and the girl empowering the runes, together tackling spells far beyond their age or experience would suggest.

Yet they know they cannot be beaten. They know that together, they are unstoppable.

They know that only at each others hands, would they ever know the taste of defeat.

They part with a quick embrace, before shuffling off in their separate ways, pausing only briefly to look back.

* * *

Fourth year.

Again, the two meet, but now, they have drawn a crowd.

An arrogant Slytherin dares to intervene upon the battle before him, only to be beaten down in an instant by the combined strength of the pair.

Individually, they are approached, enticed to draft into armies which are rapidly forming, to fight a war which never should exist.

Individually, The two slap away the contracts, the promises, the lies.

They turn to one another, each knowing the other to be true.

But yet, even as the sides form around them, they demand to stay neutral.

It is not their war. They will not allow it to become their war.

Together, they dig through mouldering old tomes, drawing complicated patterns from the dozen conflicting scripts. Together, they begin to unravel the workings of magic itself.

They part ways with a chaste kiss, leaving the two blushing as they scramble away.

* * *

Fifth year.

They meet again, and are not interrupted. The battle lasts for a dozen minutes, as the two continued to hurl spells at one another, neither willing to give an inch. Two forces, evenly matched.

As they force each other to their knees, neither of the two fades completely. Instead, they slowly rise back to their feet, and embrace.

The war has all but begun now: with the murder of a young girl fresh in the air. Yet, it does not concern the two. They know what they want in life, and they are determined to get it.

Together, they explore the castle, and find a place they can truly call theirs.

As they temporarily part ways for Yule, the boy sits, knees out of the window, watching the girl ride the train home.

Spring comes.

There is no sign of the girl.

What once was a comfortable normalcy is now nothing but panic and dread.

Denial has long set in, something, anything to stave away the pain.

He flees to their space, to the space they built together, and hides away from the world, praying for her to return. Refusing to win, not like this.

 _Come back_ , he begs. _You're stronger than this_.

He ends the year alone, empty and hollow.

* * *

Sixth year.

He is nothing but a shadow now: a pale imitation of who he used to be. He withdraws completely, isolating himself.

They try to recruit him, to a band known as the 'Death Eaters'. He wards them off, with first words, and then with magic.

He will not forget her. He refuses to. Everyone else seems to have, but he will remain.

He slowly loses himself to his studies, slowly going mad to the beat of a ticking clock, involuntarily pausing as he finishes each array, still unable to break the habit.

He sees the violence slowly erupt around him, but does not interfere.

Nothing matters.

Another year ends, a blank face permanently plastered upon his face. They all avoid him now, treating him like the leper he feels himself as.

* * *

Seventh Year.

They do not treat him as a person any longer, nor does he feel the urge to be.

Investigation has revealed much: an ancient family, slaughtered to the man.

The girl, her family.

And her body, never found. No bones, no rites, no burial.

He digs a small grave in absentia, something, anything to grant him closure.

Yet as his vision blurs, he can barely see the ground below him.

As his final work, he seals their hideout. Keyed to her. Keyed to them.

He leaves the school for the final time as another unremarkable Wizard, choosing to fade into obscurity.

He decides he deserves nothing less.

* * *

Seven years.

No longer a boy, now a man.

He is a hunter now, a vigilante determined to protect.

To prevent others from feeling his pain.

To keep what little memories he still has of her alive.

He finds a shadow, a strange imitation upon the roadside. But yet, the voice is unmistakable. The laugh, the walk. It flees as soon as it sees him.

He trails her, following her first through the forest, then through the swamps.

He will not give up the chase, no matter how difficult.

He finally tracks her to her old home, to the burned-out hulk in which she used to live.

There, the figure turns.

It is not the girl, not any more. Nor is it a woman. Rather, it is something else, something familiar, yet deeply wrong. Its face a mockery of what he remembers, its skin a pallor hue, its teeth in fangs, its fingers in claws.

Yet it reacts as if struck.

It glances towards the man, black eyes full of hope, of fear, of memories.

 _Kill me_. It begs. _You are the only one who can_.

He only shakes his head as he draws his wand.

Together they meet, yet neither is the victor.

As he struggles to his feet, he approaches his former foe. Friend. Lover.

With not even a touch of hesitation, he lowers a hand to it.

And slowly, after a gasp of relief, his rival raises her hand up to his, and grasps tightly.


	5. During the Ball

_Let's give this another go._

 _Written as a challenge for the Golden Snitch Forums._

 _Two prompts:_

 _1: Playboy bunny/cat/mouse: Write about a character making a fool of themselves in front of their crush. (Bonus! Dialogue: "I'm a mouse, duh." 5 points)._

 _2: Eggnog Cake:1. Vanilla cake (Genre: humor) 2. Eggnog pastry cream filling (Color: lavender) 3. Spiced rum Vanilla bean frosting (Restriction: must have an OC as a main character) 4. Cinnamon sugar sprinkle (Animal: lizard)_

 _Timeline-wise, happens right during the dance._

 _Also, in case it's not obvious, AU, set in my other story's timeline._

* * *

It had taken serious convincing to get Ginny out of their room. She had been tempted to slap the girl, and a part of her still resented her for refusing that urge.

Aura groaned.

As if Ginny wasn't secretly on cloud nine about the whole thing! What sort of girl spends all year (well, every year) crushing on a boy as hard as she does, but chokes up the moment she has an opportunity to actually do something about it?

"And now," she muttered, "It's time to follow the two around. Hopefully, neither of the two are ambushed, but really, who am I kidding, they're totally going to be ambushed."

She turned back to her dresser.

Technically, she wasn't supposed to go down to the Ball, as she was both underage, and lacked a date.

Not like something that dumb would ever stop her.

She reached into her closet for her red dress.

"Thank goodness for spares." she mumbled, as she hastily donned her dress.

* * *

"I didn't know that you were a metamorphmagus." spoke a waifish voice from behind her.

Aura blinked twice, and then whirled around, nearly colliding with Luna, who had been leaning in rather close.

"I'm… not." she sputtered. "It's… a spell."

Luna was dressed in a rather gaudy lavender dress, Victorian in style.

At least, it was _mostly_ Victorian. It was rather heavily modified.

The bust, legs, and arms of the dress were covered in countless glimmering scales. Complimenting the outfit was a rather obvious set of pink, sparkly, decorative fairy wings, and even a set of brown mouse ears.

"What the hell?" sputtered Aurelia.

"I'm a mouse, duh." replied Luna, in a matter of fact tone.

"Wasn't All Hallow's Eve two months ago?"

Luna rolled her eyes. "Time is relative. Since when has anyone here ever said 'Today is not All Hallow's Eve'? I'm merely following my own clock, doing what I want to do. Besides, things like Time Turners exist, right? Also, why are you carrying around a Salamander in your pocket?"

Aura returned a stare. "Cinder here gets lonely if both of us are gone for too long. Plus, she's a decent impromptu throwing weapon. But you're doing something else, too. What is it?"

Luna shrugged her shoulders. "Everyone's busy with the ball, and this gives me time to go and do my own thing. The nargles aren't going to chase themselves, you know?"

"You're snooping, aren't you."

Luna spread a toothy grin. "A journalist has to start somewhere, right? Besides, the new Defense teacher feels off. There's no way that Dumbledore would authorize Unforgivables, even with permission. Oh, and by the way, if the rumor mill is right, congratulations on resisting the Imperius."

"It… was a mixed victory. It didn't do anything, but I couldn't do much either," murmured Aura. "And the costume?"

"If someone were to catch me, and I was dressed normally, what'd they say?"

"Oh." stated Aura as she raised her hand to her face. "You're going for the 'I'm probably going crazy, it's probably a good idea to forget this', aren't you."

"Bingo." smiled Luna. "Did you enjoy the Quibbler I gave you?"

"I'll take a regular subscription, sure. But I gotta go, someone could be attacking Potter even now."

"He does have that effect, doesn't he." chirped Luna. "I'll leave you to it then. Good luck on your mission, little Fel, and you too, little Salamander."

And with that, Luna spun on her heel, and walked off into the distance, over-elaborate costume jangling with every step.

Only when she was entirely out of sight, did Aura let go of the breath she was holding.

"Dammit. _So_ glad that she's the only true-sighted witch here." she groaned, as Cinder chirped in agreement.

* * *

Once again, Aura lowered her face to her hands.

She was sitting by the punch, occasionally refilling her rapidly-emptying cup.

On the dance floor, the couples were dancing to the best of their abilities.

Unfortunately, for Potter and Ginny, neither of the two had any real ability.

"Ooooh, that'll leave a mark" grimaced the boy beside her, as Ginny's flailing legs forced an impromptu near-backflip from Potter.

"It's not a day for Potter, until someone, or something tries to kill him." Aura snarked, taking another sip of punch. It tasted funny, like it was rancid, or something. To be honest, not having a fully-working sense of taste was as much of a blessing as it was a curse. On the plus side, she was pretty much immune to most kinds of poison, so regardless of how badly the messed up the punch, she'd be fine.

"You want to dance?" asked one of the boys near her.

"I would, except I'm mostly here to watch people fall over and make a fool of themselves." replied Aura.

She groaned. Right now, she looked about three years older than she actually was. She had _really_ not wanted to be recognisable, and had gone the extra mile to make that distinction known. Unfortunately, she had done it too well: this was the sixth guy this hour. In fact, the rate that she was being asked had only increased as time had gone on.

Was a brighter skin color, and two cup sizes really enough to have this kind effect? If so, she was entirely fine with staying flat forever.

She finished her eighth cup of punch, and refilled it in two scoops.

"Well…" she murmured, as she watched two continue to fail to waltz. Ginny, having apparently gotten confused, had lifted both legs at the same time, leading to a rather catastrophic faceplant.

"At least I'm not doing _nothing_ tonight."


	6. Not-Quite Lovestruck

_Written as a Golden Snitch Challenge!_

 _Prompts:_

 _One of Gilderoy Lockhart's cupids manage to hit Marcus Flint._

 _Setting: Library_

 _Setting: Kitchen_

 _Word Count: 1896 words_

 _Scenario: Someone tampers with the bludgers_

 _Restrictions:_

 _No using a '?'_

 _No writing about Harry Potter, Hermione Granger or Ronald Weasley in the same story._

 _That is, you can write about Hermione, but Ron or Harry cannot be in the same story._

 _No Dramiones or Drinnys (or Gacos?)._

 _No mentioning 'werewolf' when writing about Fenrir Greyback or Remus Lupin._

 _No using the colour green, red or blue in your story._

 _No stories mentioning or set in the Great Hall of Hogwarts._

 _No using parentheses '(' or ')'_

 _No use of the words: 'brilliant', 'like', 'longing', 'Ravenclaw', 'ghost', 'party', 'what' or 'hair'._

 _No use of the word 'Potter'_

 _No mentioning how Dumbledore's eyes twinkle._

* * *

 _ **Warning. Sanity is in low supply. Viewer discretion is advised. Contains angry Slytherins, and cruelty to dwarves, elves, and rational thinking.**_

* * *

"MY EYE!" screamed Marcus, as he smeared a trickle of blood from his face.

The midget slowly lowered its bow, and slowly began to creep backwards, terrified expression plastered across its face.

"YOU SHOT ME RIGHT IN THE GODDAMN EYE!" bellowed the irate Slytherin, fingers pointed directly at the offending object. "NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SHOOT ME IN THE EYE! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH PAIN I AM IN. IN FACT, IF YOU ENJOY IT, YOU SHOULD BE FEELING THIS AMOUNT OF PAIN TOO!"

He was having such a great day, too. They had completely obliterated that team of petty bookworms, stomping their puny hides into the dirt.

Figuratively, of course. As if he'd ever dirty his shoes doing that. Still it felt good, there was no denying that. Right now, of course, he didn't care how dirty his shoes became. If he stained them crimson from stomping the little bastard into the dirt, well, he'd just need to buy another pair of shoes. It'd be worth it, oh so very worth it.

It had gotten even better after Malfoy revealed later that he had replaced the bludgers with cursed ones: specifically enchanted to go after anyone not wearing a Slytherin uniform more often than not. Apparently, there actually was a store for everything.

But now, of course, his wonderful, awesome day was ruined by an over-enthusiastic, idiotic midget, with a **death wish**.

He was sitting in the library, minding his own business. Not reading, of course, only an idiotic bookworm would do that. No, he was merely going through another kid's pockets, because said kid had looked at him funny. To his disappointment, the kid only had a few sickles to his name, and thus was more or less entirely a waste of time.

He was almost halfway done, when out of nowhere, a hideous arrow had flown directly into his eye.

And that's when the urge to murder began.

Behind him, he could hear one of the other, younger students running off, perhaps to get help.

Of course, in Marcus's mind, the kid was only trying to get out of the splatter zone.

With malice dripping off of every motion, he clenched his hands into a fist, nearly choking the kid his hand was still in the pocket of. Throwing the poverty-sticken bastard aside, he began his chase of the offending dwarf. His remaining eye stared at the fleeing fool with absolute hatred, before he sprung to his feet, chasing his unfortunate victim.

He could practically taste its fear, as he blasted through the library, screaming bloody retribution.

* * *

"GET BACK HERE SO I CAN RIP YOUR LIMBS FROM YOUR BODY, AND STOMP ON YOUR CORPSE!" screamed the colossus, cheap arrow still sticking out of his eye socket.

"Excuse me miss, pardon me, just need to pass by. Thank you miss, excuse me sir, thank you, please keep moving." spoke the Grofnald the dwarf, as quickly as he could.

Around him, the humans were running far too slowly: he was running,as fast as his stubby legs would allow. Behind him, was a monstrous creature born of rage and hatred, easily eight stone heavier than him, and thrice his height.

Still, even the slowest of them had begun moving once he had hopped over an incoming curse: it seemed that he beast had regained some of its clarity, and had begun resorting to casting as it ran.

He hadn't signed up for this! Heck, Lockhart had promised that it'd be an easy job: the quickest eight sickles he'd ever make! How was he supposed to know that he needed to aim for the lower body, he sure as hell didn't know that!

Sure, the uniforms were a terrible idea, but his mother had never possessed much color sense either, so it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever worn. After all, anything beat being crept up from behind, stunned, and then dressed as a lawn gnome for a week. That had been a particularly painful year.

Grofnald shook his head, barely slowing down. Reminiscing would happen later: after he had shaken the monster determined to kill him. Maybe he could turn around and try to put out the other eye… no. he doubted he'd be able to make the same shot twice. Besides, attempting to fire back would leave him vulnerable to incoming spells.

According to his nose, he was fast approaching the kitchens. Even if the elves were unable to help him, losing the colossus amid the crowd of similar-sized beings was his best bet.

After all, it was only after him. It wasn't going to fire into a group of innocents.

At least, he hoped so.

* * *

Marcus barely paused as he entered the kitchens, fury still not abated. Of course, he slowed down, but only to grab the nearest set of knives, and began hurling them towards the midget, who had done his absolute best to hide amidst the servants, while still throwing the occasional Stunning Spell in for good measure.

The look on its face when the knives began flying was priceless. Absolute bloody terror incarnate.

Even as the midget once again began to flee, he continued to throw Stunners, and even the odd Crucio into the mix. Unfortunately, his aim wasn't quite the best without depth perception, causing him to hit a few elves instead. Oh well, not as if anyone would miss the little bastards.

As he continued his pursuit, he could smell a few of the elves soil themselves as they writhed on the ground in agony. Served them right for getting in his way.

* * *

Grofnald's heart was in his ears as he blasted down the hallways, dodging steel and spell alike.

Had the monster no shame? He could still hear the blood-curdling cries of the elves, as knives and spells struck them, bled them, made them suffer. He wasn't sure whether the monster was truly that furious with him, or if it was that sadistic, even without an outlet such as the one he had inadvertently provided. Either way, he mourned the few elves who had been sporting knives protruding from their bodies, and hoped they would make a full recovery.

"Worst. Day. Ever." he murmured, as he leaped over a shimmering spell which exploded into a colorful firework. He had never really paid much attention to the various spells, and their effects: he had only been taught that 'getting hit by one is bad', and thus was doing his level best to avoid every spell. Thank goodness that his pursuer lacked depth perception!

Now more than ever, he truly was glad that he had signed up as a cross-country runner last year. The practice had certainly been useful. Last year, he'd have been lucky to make it as far as he had.

Too bad he could see a wall fast approaching. He was running out of castle to run through! Stupid Wizards and their inability to make large-enough castles!

He briefly considered hiding in one of the suits of armor, but shook the thought away. That'd only work if he managed to break vision from the monster, which was rather unlikely.

* * *

Marcus was barely winded by the time he had cornered the midget. It had done a decent job at escaping, but unfortunately, its stride was simply far too short to evade him for long.

Clutching a knife knife, knuckles white and arrow still sticking out of his right-eye, he advanced upon his victim, teeth locked in a grimace that promised death, destruction, and dozens of brand new stab wounds. He could practically hear the dwarf's heart pounding, as he approached, a vicious demon of blood and death.

He lunged forward, knife flashing in the dim torchlight, but struck nothing but bricks and mortar. The dwarf, seeing the opportunity, hopped over his outstretched arm, before clamoring its way southward.

Marcus smiled. Nothing was in that direction, save for a simple boy's washroom. **There was no escape**.

He would have his vengeance.

* * *

There was no escape.

Around him, the stone walls were closing in.

Grofnald took a deep breath to steady himself. Behind him, the Colossus was slowly approaching, its footfalls chilling his very blood. Every step, unstoppable, impossible to negotiate, slowed to maximize the panic and terror swimming through his blood. He was going to die here. He was going to die, trapped in this stupid goddamn castle, wearing the world's stupidest, ugliest uniform.

He couldn't do much about the whole 'death' thing, but he could definitely ditch the uniform.

It only took a moment to rip off the tacky pink getup. Not that he'd need it, where he was going. 'Hopefully, after they find my body,' he pondered, 'They'll have the decency to bury me in something more than my undergarments. Assuming they can recognise the corpse…'

"COME OUT, COME OUT, LITTLE MIDGET" boomed the colossus, as it finally reached the threshold, and threw the door aside with an audible whoosh.

Grofnald could practically see the reaper approaching, nearly taste the metal of the scythe, hear the clip-clopping of the pale horse. He quickly scanned the room, desperate for an escape.

No windows. No doors. Only a sink, an absolute lack of windows, and a toilet.

Grofnald slapped his forehead. Of course!

* * *

Marcus had expected many things as he walked into the room. A cowering dwarf, for sure. A puddle of urine, probably. The muggles his father had brought home had always acted similarly to that.

Unfortunately, his arrival discovered something entirely different.

Rather than a terrified dwarf, there was merely a pile of clothing, and no dwarf in sight.

He groaned. Somehow, it had gotten away.

He couldn't stop himself from bellowing out in fury. All of this way, only to fail to catch the bloody bastard. He couldn't believe it.

Even worse, he had no way of tracking the damn thing down!

Only then did he begin to feel the throbbing pain of the arrow. He had pushed the feeling aside, as vengeance, and retribution had vastly outweighed the importance. But now, with his target escaped, he could no longer ignore it.

Wincing in pain, he attempted to remove the arrow from his eye, but found only agony. It was stuck in, and he had no idea how to remove it. Yet another thing to curse the bloody dwarf for.

He sighed. It seemed he'd need to head to the hospital wing, after all.

He began rapidly casting small spells, mostly with the hopes that no one would check his wand that far back.

After all, it'd be pointless to be thrown out for something as silly as a few Crucios, after all.

As if Dumbassdore would ever do it, the soft-hearted fool.

* * *

Grofnald raised his hands in triumph as he stumbled out into the light. Although it had cost him his clothing, his dignity, and his job, he had survived. Against all odds, he had face the reaper and won, grabbed his fleeing life back, and had escaped the murder-castle.

"Now!" he spoke, as calmly as he could. "It's time to go get drunk and forget all of this."

And with that, he lifted himself out of the sewer pipe, brushed himself off, and rose to his feet.

And with that, he spun around quickly in a circle, then wandered off in a random direction, a direction which hopefully contained a bar.


	7. Marge's Engagement

_Written as a Golden Snitch Challenge!_

 _Prompts:_

 _Character: Dudley Dursley_

 _Character: Fenrir Greyback_

 _Scenario: Marge Dursley falls in love with a wizard._

 _Restrictions:_

 _No using a '?'_

 _No writing about Harry Potter, Hermione Granger or Ronald Weasley in the same story._

 _That is, you can write about Hermione, but Ron or Harry cannot be in the same story._

 _No Dramiones or Drinnys (or Gacos?)._

 _No mentioning 'werewolf' when writing about Fenrir Greyback or Remus Lupin._

 _No using the colour green, red or blue in your story._

 _No stories mentioning or set in the Great Hall of Hogwarts._

 _No using parentheses '(' or ')'_

 _No use of the words: 'brilliant', 'like', 'longing', 'Ravenclaw', 'ghost', 'party', 'what' or 'hair'._

 _No use of the word 'Potter'_

 _No mentioning how Dumbledore's eyes twinkle._

* * *

"I'm getting married this fall." spoke Marge Dursley, as she sipped tea from her cup. "It'll be a big thing: I'm inviting everyone. I mean it, everyone."

There was a thump from the freak's cupboard.

"Hey! Freak! Keep it quiet in there!" shouted Dudley, as he helped himself to another scone.

Petunia clasped her hands in joy. "I don't believe I've met the lucky man."

"Oh," smiled Marge, as she shook her hand in jest, "I doubt you have. I only met him a few days ago, at a dog show convention, of all places."

"No way!" shrieked Petunia. "Do you have his name his name… Better question, I assume you're going to bring him over some time to meet us..."

"He said his name was Fenrir." Marge's speech was interrupted by a second thump, this time louder than the last.

Petunia glared towards the door, before turning to Dudley, vicious smirk on her face.

"Dudley, if you would be a dear, go tape up the freak's cupboard, and put the hair-dryer in the same place you put it last time."

As Dudley wandered off in search of the hair-dryer and duct tape, they were free to move onto the more important issues.

"He had this huge, beautiful Rottweiler: big, well bred, well groomed, pretty much perfect. You wouldn't believe it, Petunia, he had the thing jumping through hoops, it must've been trained all of its life! Best dog in show, hands down."

"You sound awfully happy, if he was as good as you say he was. Last time you went to one of those shows, you were talking for weeks about how Ripper earned you two a bronze medal." replied Petunia with a smirk.

There was an audible click, a shnnnk of duct tape, and the sound of a hair-dryer being activated.

"Be sure to turn it onto 'high heat', Duddikins!" shouted Petunia. There were three more, slightly quieter clicks, before the response "Got it, Mum!" echoed back to her.

"Ripper's still hurt from when he fell off the deck chasing that mailman, you see." replied Marge, smile temporarily absent, as she thought of her injured pooch. "I brought him, of course, wouldn't want to leave the dear locked up at home."

Just barely audible over the sound of the hair dryer was a groan. Hopefully, the freak would pass out from heat exhaustion sooner, rather than later.

"And then he comes over, sees Ripper, and just reaches down to pet him! I've never seen Ripper warm up to a stranger as fast as he did!" exclaimed Marge. "And then he turns to me, smile on his face, and introduces himself!"

"And you're on your fourth date now. At least, that's your story earlier." murmured Petunia.

"Bingo!" replied Marge. "The date was amazing, finally I've met someone who understands the value of a firm hand! So yes, one thing led to another, and he asked me to marry him."

"You're lucky, then."

"Oh, I definitely am." smiled Marge. "It's good to know that there are good men out there, amidst the sea of freaks and liars."

The two finished tier tea, joking of their lives, their futures, and of their many enjoyable years ahead of them both.


	8. 12DoC: Day 1: Owl

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 1: Write a story Write about Pigwidgeon or Errol being selected by the Weasleys._

* * *

Ronald Weasley walked slowly into the magical pet shop, with a single goal in purpose.

"Prat, you actually look serious right now. Lighten up, it's only an owl." stated his sister, as she jabbed him on the arm.

Ron's face fell for a moment.

Ron walked into the magical pet shop, sister in tow, hoping to find an owl.

Sure, he had seen Harry's owl do good work, but owls were expensive, and a lot of work. He wasn't sure he'd be able to remember to feed it, let alone take care of it properly!

Not to mention that an owl was expensive! He only had a few week's worth of allowances in his pocket, which would hopefully be enough.

Of course, his sister had decided to tag along, not because of any particular reason, but he had his suspicions. Hopefully, she'd not complicate the trip too much.

With a small grimace on his face, he walked up to the empty counter, and tapped the bell.

Out of the storeroom breezed the shopkeeper, nose deep in the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. It took several attempts to garner the attention of the shopkeeper.

"I'd like to see the options for… budget… owls." he ground out, hoping to not make too much of a fool for himself.

The shopkeeper lowered the newspaper, tapped their chin twice, before retreating back into the storeroom.

Meanwhile, Ginny was wandering around through the rest of the store, occasionally stopping at the various displays.

A clearing of a throat from behind him brought the redhead's attention back towards the shopkeeper, who was holding two cages.

"Here are the two budget options we have right now."

In the shopkeeper's right cage, was something that resembled a hummingbird a lot more than an owl. Its wings nearly a blur, the 'dwarf' owl zoomed about the cage, hooting a mile a minute.

"What… do you feed that thing?" he blurted out, as he watched it make yet another loop-de-loop."

"We found it behind a tweeker's house." admitted the shopkeeper. "They were apparently feeding it nothing but their failed batches. No idea why they decided to ruin a perfectly good post owl, but their loss, I suppose."

Doing his best to take his eyes off of the energetic blur (it wasn't easy, as the flurry of movement drew the eye like a moth to a flame), he turned his eye towards the second cage.

While the first cage contained a bird that wouldn't stop moving, this one contained an owl that was entirely immobile. Its eyes were wide open, and focused dead ahead.

"Uh… Does it blink?" Ron asked, taking a quick look back to the blur. The coked-up owl was now doing a barrel roll.

Ron stared towards the immobile owl for a minute, debating his options. He could either take the…

The dwarf owl was now eating a pellet of food a second, when he could have sworn it was flying but a second ago.

He shook his head clear.

He could either take the coked up owl, or the…

The other owl still hadn't moved.

"Are you sure the owl isn't dead?" he asked, in a moment of impulse.

The shopkeeper's eyes lip up, as if he had been promised the world.

"No, no, he's resting."

"Oh, like Errol, then. Our family owl does that all the time." spoke Ron with a sigh of relief.

The shopkeeper's face twisted into a scowl.

"Look, kid, I keep a dead owl specifically so I can quote Monty Python when poor bastards like you show up. I was going to sell you the crack-owl at half price if you had gone along with it." grumbled the shopkeeper as he gestured to the blur.

Which was currently picking the lock with a loose feather.

"Oh bloody hell. Not again." groaned the shopkeeper, as he attempted to lunge for the cage door, but simply could not outspeed the feathered blur.

With a near inaudible crack of an avian breaking the sound barrier, the owl shot out of the cage like a missile. By fifteen seconds, the owl had begun its fourth lap of the store.

"Bloody hell! Catch that owl!" screamed the shopkeeper, shoving the dead owl to the side.

The owl carcass, already perilously perched upon the wooden post, fell from its perch onto the metal cage floor with a light splat.

The escaped owl, having finally built up enough speed, was all but invisible.

"Look what you've done!" screamed the shopkeeper, as he gestured wildly. "It'll take forever to catch the damn thing!"

To everyone's misfortune, it was then that Ginny chimed in. "Ron, have you found an owl yet?"

Ron all but threw his hands up in the air. "See the blur near the ceiling?"

Ginny squinted before nodding slowly. "Yeah, and?"

"That's the owl."

Ginny blinked twice, before glancing back towards Ron. "What do they feed that thing?"

"Hell if I know!"

* * *

"If you catch the damn owl, it's yours!" screamed the shopkeeper, ten minutes into the chase.

"It's a shame Harry isn't here." murmured Ginny. "He's better at the whole 'catching super-fast objects' thing than I am."

"Seeker reflexes would definitely be handy here." affirmed Ron.

To their luck, it was at that time that another customer walked in, clutching a mug of coffee.

With a near instantaneous 'boom', the owl exited hyperspeed, en route directly towards the source of caffeine.

"Catch it! Now!"

With nary a blink, the customer wrapped a hand around the owl perched atop his coffee mug, before slowly handing it back to Ron's outstretched hand.

Then, with a single ponderous look, the customer turned back around and exited the store.

"So… can I keep the" began Ron

"TAKE THE OWL AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" screamed the shopkeeper.

* * *

"Soo… not a word of this to the others?" asked Ginny.

"Agreed." murmured Ron.

"HOOOWRBBLLLL!" vocalized Pidwidgeon.


	9. 12DoC: Day 2: Friends

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 2: Write about Lavender and Parvati's friendship._

 _Note: This is in the canon universe. No relation whatsoever to what I've done to my little sandbox._

* * *

"So, how did the dance go?" prodded Lavender Brown, face emblazoned with a grin.

She was sitting atop her bed, staring at Parvati intently, occasionally kicking her feet.

Parvati Patil could only sigh, as she lay on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling above her.

"That bad, huh?" murmured Lavender, as her expression fell. "I'd have thought Harry Potter would be more of a catch than that. What'd he do?"

Parvati's frown did not change, as she remained silent. A pair of flies zipped above, flying lazy loop-de-loops in the flickering torchlight.

"Parv... you know you can trust me, right? I'm not going to judge you for this, no matter what he said or did. You're my best friend. Been since first year."

"I trust you Lav," murmured Parvati, eyes still glued to the aerial acrobatics above, "But it's embarrassing."

"Yeah well, we can both be embarrassed together! C'mon, Parv, you can't leave me in the dark like this." pleaded Lavender.

"How was Seamus, by the way?" spoke Parvati, desperate to avoid the subject.

Lavender's face twisted into a slight frown. "He was nice, but I'm pretty sure he's gay. At least, I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure. You know what I mean?"

Parvati jolted up to a sitting position, before glancing wide-eyed towards her friend. "No way."

"Yes way." grinned Lavender.

"He told you?"

"No, I can only guess. But I'm not going to spread that around. He was nice." Lavender examined her nails as she spoke. "Damn. I think I cracked a nail."

"So you danced all night with a guy that's gay, and you're here, talking about it?" spoke Parvati, mouth agape.

"Yup!" chirped Lavender. "And with an ice-breaker like that, you _have_ to tell me what's got you so down."

Parvati cleared her throat. She could either fess up now, or be bugged like this all night.

"Harry... he..." began Parvati, "He spent the entire dance staring at Chang."

"Cho Chang? The airheaded, sorta mean and bitchy Ravenclaw?"

Parvati finally cracked a smile, but it faded quickly. "That's the one. Was I not pretty enough? She hardly even looked towards him, but he was practically wrapped around her finger!"

Lavender was up in a blur, before sitting directly beside her, and wrapping her friend in a hasty embrace.

"Parv... that wasn't an insult to you. Boys will be boys. And boys will always be stupid." Lavender reassured her. "It's not your fault that slut managed to take the eye of a guy you hardly know, just means you need to keep looking!"

"But..." murmured Parvati, "What if the right guy never comes along?"

"Parv!" shouted Lavender. "The right guy _will_ come along. It's only a matter of time."

"You sure?"

"I'm beyond sure."

Parvati climbed to her feet, shook out her arms, and then smiled back to her friend. "Thank you."

Lavender was up nearly immediately after. "No problem."

"That's what friends are for, right?"

"That's what friends are for."


	10. 12DoC: Day 3: Warped

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 3: Write about Peeves.  
_

* * *

"Simon Peeves, how do you plead?" bellowed the executioner, a rather round, angry, and altogether disagreeable fellow.

"Not guilty." spat out the disgraced jester, from his impromptu perch. They had nailed his coat, his wonderful, colourful coat to the tavern wall, suspended above the town he had loved, the town he had been raised in. More nails, over two dozen, anchored his pants and collar, immobilising him entirely.

It had started so innocently. What had begun as a minor prank had rapidly spiralled out of control.

He had only planned to juggle fire, to impress the drab and boring populace of the town! He couldn't have imagined it had gone so terribly.

A runaway wagon had collided with him from behind, knocking his feet out from under him. In a moment, the thatched roof of the mayor's house was in flames.

In a moment of desperation, he called upon what little reserves of magic he possessed, and attempted to quell the flames as quickly, and quietly as he could.

He was not successful.

"Crier, read this man his list of crimes." spoke the rotund man. "Let him know why he has done to deserve his fate."

Another man walked up, this time carrying a small scroll. With a small cough, he extended the scroll, and began to read aloud.

"Simon Peeves, you are hereby charged for the unforgivable crimes of Arson, Attempted Assassination of the Mayor, and knowledge of Dark Magics." With one final huff, the smaller man closed the scroll, and walked away, with hardly a glance behind him.

"Well then, get it over with!" screamed Peeves, annoyed at the sheer sluggishness of what was happening around him.

The Executioner only smiled back.

"Your execution shall fit the crime. You are to remain pinned." With that, he walked away.

"Pinned? That's my punishment?" screamed Peeves. "You can't be serious!"

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Peeves could only watch the faces of those he had known, those he had loved, turn away from him in disgust.

* * *

He had tried to keep his spirits high during his ordeal, cracking jokes, telling stories to those below him, attempting to draw the eye, any eye, of another person.

But yet, they ignored the garishly garbed man, continuing on, as if he was hardly even there.

* * *

It was only the second day that the crows came.

With wings of black, and eyes of stolen opal, they came in swarms, perching amongst him, screeching and clawing. They were drawn to the fake gems in his outfit, the very same outfit which kept him pinned, and with not a shred of care, they tore the gems free.

The crowd had begun to return, to watch the crows do their work, and so, Peeves told them jokes. Told them stories.

But yet, none would listen, and none would care.

They had only come to watch the black birds.

* * *

By the third day, he had begun to tell jokes to the birds.

While he wasn't sure whether or not they found him funny, they never laughed, never jeered. They listened, as an audience always should.

His outfit, now free of its decoration, was now faded and broken, as was he.

The crowds did not return: and as the sun set, Peeves could feel himself growing weak, could feel the sense of cold growing closer as hunger and thirst began to dull his mind.

* * *

By the fourth day, he had begun to tell jokes to himself.

Peeves, as he always knew, always knew how to tell a joke. Always knew how to make someone laugh.

Peeves had always been a joker, and should therefore always be funny.

As the crows laughed along with him, he spent his fourth night awake, no longer able to feel the urge to sleep.

* * *

By the fifth day, he could only laugh.

He could hear the jokes now, could hear them, the birds were excellent orators.

They could tell a joke like nothing he had ever heard.

They told stories of far away skies, of places where they were free to do whatever they wished.

Of rules that did not apply, of humans that could not touch them, of places beyond the wildest imagination.

Peeves soaked it all in, soaked in all of their stories.

* * *

There was no sixth day.

* * *

On the twelfth day, they took the body down, and cremated it.

* * *

On the fifteenth day, the executioner found himself outside of his house, garbed in nothing but his undergarments. He briefly considered having consumed too much alcohol, before immediately coming to the conclusion of witches.

And then he wandered back inside, grabbed some clothing, and then wandered over to the bar.

* * *

On the eightieth day, the spectre of Peeves truly awakened, to find himself in a world he could touch, but could not be touched. In a place where he could see, but not be seen.

A grin formed upon his face, and he rubbed his hands in glee.

The birds had told him of nothing but fun.

It was time to seize the day.

After all, a person could only live one, right?


	11. 12DoC: Day 4: Guise

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 4: Write about a Mother/Daughter Relationship_

 _Warning: This one does take place in my little sandbox Chapterfic._

 _Be warned about that._

 _Timeline-wise, I'd say… Year -4. That puts Aura at age 7._

 _For clarification, Aura is a demon. Honestly more of a really weird Veela._

* * *

To an outside observer, what was currently happening would be considered nothing less than the utmost and most unforgivable of dark magic. The mere presence of a Dark Creature, let alone one passing on its gift to one of its progeny, would be enough to spark a nation-wide manhunt.

But yet, amidst the now nearly-empty hulk that once was the manor of the Cain family, there were simply no prying eyes to be. What the manor once possessed in furnishings and sparse wards was now only layers upon layers of wards, some Light, some Neutral, but most Dark. Not due to the magic, of course, but rather due to the sheer difficulty of removing said wards. After all, what protection was better than one unable to be identified?

And thus it was there, amidst the depilitated ruin that was once home to half of herself, Annabelle Cain sat cross-legged on one of the few repairable carpets still within the building.

Cyrus was out to the market to buy some food, and would be back in an hour or so.

Before her, was her daughter. _Their daughter, hastily appended Avira_.

To any human observer, they'd only see a monster, something to be hunted, something to be removed. But they would never see that.

Annabelle only saw her child, her baby girl, wearing a face not unlike her own, those many years ago. _Avarice saw her progeny, her legacy, something to be cherished and protected._

And both halves agreed that neither heaven in all of its scorn, nor hell in all of its fury would ever harm the child.

The Mother and Daughter had seated themselves on the rug to practice exercising control over their forms: while the two-in-one had not possessed the ability upon their unexpected 'birth', it was through the combined efforts of both halves, and of the haphazard tutoring of the newer half of the elder that even allowed the Daemonhost to master that ability.

For the two years it had taken to learn, they had been forced to hide, unable to blend in.

A fate they would do everything within their power to protect their child from.

"What is the outside like?" asked Aurelia, as she gazed towards the nearest window.

Save for the rarest occasion of great power (Hallow's Eve, and the Summer Solstice), the child lacked the power yet to cloak herself completely, damning her to remain indoors, away from prying eyes. Even then, it was only through lies, (of a sickness which neither existed, nor would ever exist) that she remained unnoticed, only visible those days for fear of worsening 'health'.

Needless to say, many a night were spent tracking down the flighty child, to find her watching the moon rise through a charmed window, occasionally illuminated by a spark of naturally evoked flame.

Two-in-one, the Mother responded. They were in agreement. "The outside is a place of wonder, of wizards and magic. But it is also dangerous. If they could find you, they would never stop."

"Will I ever be able to go out there freely, someday?" asked the hopeful child

"I assure you." began Anna, but she stumbled slightly, " _You will be free to come and go as you wish, should you master your ability to hide yourself._ " caught Avira, covering for her other half.

' _One of these days, Anna, I will need to teach you how to think before you speak_.'

'And one of these days, I very well will walk us into a church.'

' _You know as well as I that you will burn just as much as I will._ '

"Can you really teach me?" murmured Aurelia, eyes full of doubt. Over the past year, she had begun to learn the guise, but had only managed to color her arms so far. It had taken significant effort to even progress so far. "It's really hard. Am I not doing it right?"

" _I am certain we can teach you. The glamour should be simple enough for a child to learn. After all, I already tau-_ "

Mid-sentence, control was yanked away.

'Dammit, Avira!' groaned Anna. 'You're making me look bad.'

The body's mouth twisted slightly, as the impulse to grin began to surge outwards, fueled by both halves.

' _I have done no such thing. You tend to do it yourself_ '. Chided Avira.

"Mommy, are you arguing with yourself again?" asked the seven-year-old, eyes full of feigned innocence.

"No, definitely not." denied the two-in-one. Unfortunately, they spoke together.

"You're silly, Mommy." snorted the child.

The two settled into silence, as the child continued to meditate. The colors of her wrists began to shift in hue, first from the pallor grey to a unearthly pale, and then to a near match of a healthy skin color. Already, she had made progress during the session: over the hour, she had gained over six inches square of affected flesh.

'But when we let her go, and she's free to leave, how will we protect her? We can do so here; but not out there, not where they can find us if we let loose.' asked the elder half, as she watched their child work.

' _You love her. As do I. But caging her here forever is not the choice. Sooner or later, our kind breaks the chains, and seizes their freedom, regardless of intent. It is what we are. It is what we always will be._ '

'Pheh. I thought demons were above the whole 'love' thing. Aren't I supposed to be the one going on about that?'

' _Weren't you the one baying for blood when that Wizard got too pushy during her birthday last year?_ '

'He was asking questions we couldn't afford to answer. If he had kept pushing, we'd have needed to eliminate him. He wasn't even a high-ranking member of society, no one would notice the disappearance of a baker.'

' _And now you know why Cyrus refers to me as the 'Good Twin.' Honestly, only you could make a demon look good in comparison._ '

'I resent that remark! I only got this bad after you moved in.'

' _That's not what Cyrus told me. Apparently, he only accepted us back because you didn't change at all._ '

'That traitor!'

A small sigh from the child drew both back to attention.

Manipulating magic such as the glamour was significant effort and a large drain on the magic. Already, the active glamour was beginning to fade, with the human-colored patches already beginning to fade into the grey flesh beneath.

Several times, the flesh began to flicker back to the glamour, but every pulse grew fainter and fainter.

"Aura, I think you've done enough for now. I think you should call it a rest, and you can work on it tomorrow." spoke Anna.

"But… I've almost got it…" murmured the fading child through gritted teeth, "I want… to go outside…"

'Definitely takes after me more. After all, I never gave up either, did I?' boasted Anna

' _Bah, she's obviously more of me. No way she'd be as powerful as she is without my influence, after all._ ' replied Avira

" _Obviously not. You look like you're but a moment away from collapsing._ " spoke Avira, hoping to keep the girl talking.

"I'm not… I'm not…" she denied, but her eyes were half-lidded already.

Even as the last of the glamour faded away, and the child all-but collapsed forward, she was still denying her exhaustion.

Both halves groaned as they watched the child sleep peacefully in the center of the rug. In but a moment later, Cyrus walked in through the Fidelius-warded front door, and saw the young demon fast asleep.

"Far too stubborn for her own good." the Daemonhost collectively groaned, to their husband's raised eyebrow.

Cyrus smiled at the young girl, mouthed 'Just like you two' at his wife, and then began his walk towards the icebox.

The two-in-one stared at the slumbering child for several seconds, unsure of what exactly to do.

But still, they lifted up the child and carried her to one of the beds.

'Ever wonder what a 'normal' family is like, Avira?'

' _Nope._ '

'Neither do I.'

' _And I wouldn't trade it for the world._ '


	12. 12DoC: Day 5: Dead Inside

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 5: Write about Dudley Dursley getting bullied._

* * *

A soft, near inaudible sob echoed from the bedroom of Dudley Dursley.

Here, at home, with his parents out and the Freak at his freak school, only here...

Only here could he ever truly let loose his bottled emotions.

And thus, he wailed, with only the empty house to hear his voice.

He was a proud boy, valuing appearance over all else, taking great efforts to appear unflappable, unshakeable. He was a rock, something that others would need to adapt to work with, rather than ever be forced to change.

His parents saw this side, the Freak saw this side as well: a strong, brave boy.

But still, the little words hurt.

Despite his appearance, he was not perfect. Far from it. And from the corners, he could always hear the muttered murmuring.

"What a whale!" they'd murmur as his back turned, but he could never narrow down which person ever said so.

"Who could ever love a face like that?" would call another.

"Die in a hole, fatty!"

"Hey, did you hear? Dursley at an entire tub of lard last summer!"

And it hurt. When they'd trip him as he walked by, and laugh as he struggled to right himself. When they'd steal his lunch, forcing him to take the freak's.

He never let it show. He was raised strong, he would always be strong.

And if he wasn't strong, he'd be the Freak.

The freak was punished because he was weak: every name he was called, every single freakish thing he did, he showed it. Proved that he was wrong. Proved that he didn't belong.

And he was a Dursley. He couldn't be a Freak.

He wouldn't let himself be a freak.

He couldn't.

And from fear became anger, and from anger he lashed out.

But only the Freak stayed near, only the Freak let himself be punched.

The rest danced out of his grasp in moments, laughing as he winded himself. Laughed as he screamed at them, laughed as they jeered and pointed, mocked and sneered.

The Freak was only fun to beat on when he had screamed, years ago.

It had been at least three since he had let out more than a whimper. The freak was dead on the inside.

Yet, Dudley still did it.

Kept up appearances.

The Freak never knew it, but he was just as dead. That the eyes of both boys were just as glassy. That it was a play with no script.

He had tried to break free once. They had put him on a diet, to shape up, to break free. He couldn't handle it, couldn't bear it. It wasn't him. It was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

So he sat, in his room, amidst the toys he had amassed, among the trophies he had gathered.

Proof that he was good. Proof that he was worth keeping

Proof that he wasn't the Freak. Proof that he'd never be the Freak.

Proof, he promised himself,

That one day would be the truth.


	13. 12DoC: Day 6: Sleeper Hit

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 6: Write about a character's embarrassing dance moves._

* * *

It was the night of the Triwizard ball.

Couples were lined up, side by side, as they swayed and stepped to the music, now a smooth, orchestral masterpiece of a bygone era.

The band was playing in the background, keeping the music going.

It was almost tranquil, as the near-silent steps of the couples whooshed through table-less great hall.

"Hey, Gorge." murmured Fred as he whirled his date near where his brother was dancing. "Let's see if we can stir this up a bit."

"Right you are," replied George, much to his date's brilliant smile. "Let's get this party started."

And with that, George bowed to his partner, and wandered off to the band.

There was a small back-and-forth, before the band member smirked evilly, nodded once, and then began to whisper to the rest of the band.

Almost immediately, everything began to go wrong.

What was once a slow, even waltz was now a rapid, irregular rhythm, punctuated by blasts of brilliant light on intervals. Every few seconds, there was a loud "UNTZ" seemingly screamed from nowhere, as if a new, more annoying ghost had suddenly made itself known.

Several couples ill-suited for adaptation tripped over themselves as the beat changed, unable to keep their balance as their feet unvoluntarily shifted to accompany the music. The hall was filled with the sound of students tripping over one another.

Panic had nearly begun to mount in the students, when suddenly, the door was thrown open with an echoing bang!

Garbed in his psychedelic, multi-coloured robes that shimmered in the torchlight, Headmaster Dumbledore sauntered in, head bopping to the rhythm. He turned his face to each student he passed, eyes glinting and glimmering the entire way.

Harry, being unused to the sudden change in the Headmaster, vocalised his concern. "Headmaster? Is there something wrong?"

"Harry, my boy. There is nothing wrong. I just came because I was needed." began the Headmaster. "This, Harry?"

The Headmaster removed his hat, and threw the garment into the stands.

"This, my boy, this is my jam."

The students all surged backwards, as the Headmaster began to dance. Starting at first with a full-body swing, the Headmaster quickly built up speed, becoming nearly a blur.

There were gasps as he seemingly fell to the floor, but they turned to murmurs of awe, as the sheer intensity of the Headmaster's break-dancing won over the doubters.

Almost immediately, the crowd stopped, before a few students surged onto the dance floor as well, joining the Headmaster in his strange dance. Among them were Seamus Finnagan and Dean Thomas, who immediately busied themselves attempting to mimic 'The Worm'.

On the outer rim of the dance floor, the remaining students were staring at the spectacle in fascination. None of them were brave enough to interfere, and, to be honest, none of them really wanted to.

"I AM GROOVY INCARNATE!" Dumbledore sorta screamed. It was more like he spoke it, but with a really loud, calm voice.

* * *

Harry Potter awoke with a jolt, before grumbling to himself. "Okay, that's the _last_ time I try to brew my own Dreamless Sleep potion."


	14. 12DoC: Day 7: Pet

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 7: Write about someone from the Marauder's Era or older as Children._

* * *

"'e's entirely harmless!" assured the Half-Giant. Of course, that's what he always said, and while no one had yet to be hurt by his eccentricity, that was also the exact number of people who were not at all wary about Hagrid's... fascinations.

Hagrid was entirely engrossed with petting his new friend. This particular one appeared to be a rather calm Gnome.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Hufflepuff common room instead chose to stare at what Hagrid had pulled in this time. A few huddled together for safety, eyeing the creature with looks of fear, uncertainty, and disgust. A few senior-year students had reflexively stepped in front of the younger-years, after all, Hufflepuffs stuck together.

From the back of the dorm, the male prefects sighed, and turned to one another. "Short straw deals with his mess?" they murmured. After the eighth time of of flushing, 'misplacing', or 'moving away' Hagrid's 'little friends', it had become nearly routine.

Indeed, Hagrid's 'monster of the week' tended to be a spectacle no matter what, although it always ended in tears from the over-large boy: as any sane wizard could see that having creatures as dangerous as they were inside of the dorms was nothing but a recipe for disaster.

As the fifth year prefect drew the short straw, for the third time in the row, he glared at his fellow prefects, before stomping down to the common room.

Cleaning up the mess was seldom fast, and never pleasant.

* * *

Hagrid wandered along the outskirts of the forbidden forest, eyes full of tears, and mouth twisted into a frown.

Why did no one understand?

They all pretended to not know where the creatures went, did their best to hide the truth from him.

He might've been a simple boy, but even he could put the clues together.

It was his eighth friend this week they had 'released' into the forest. And thus, here he was, on the forest's edge, searching for his escaped friends.

In all of his three years at Hogwarts, not once had he found one of them.

But he didn't allow himself to lose hope. After all, it had taken effort to find his friends the first time, and he expected no different the second.

* * *

The sun was setting when Hagrid finally called it quits. Once again, he had found none of his friends, once again, he was walking back alone.

Stopping for a rest, he sat upon a fallen tree, rubbing his forehead wearily.

"'s no good." murmured Hagrid. "Guess I'll have to try again t'morrow."

As he rested his hand upon the log, he felt the distinct feeling of something crawling over his hand.

"Wuzzat?" spoke Hagrid, as he turned his head to the distraction.

There, on his hand, was a small black spider, its beady eyes staring back at him.

It was barely the size of his hand, a real weedy thing, it was, and he couldn't help but smile. A new friend, this soon?

He briefly considered taking it back to the dorm, but he couldn't. They'd make the new friend disappear, and he really wanted to keep one, if only for a while.

"'ll take ya down to the 'bandoned classrooms." murmured the boy to the spider, "Noone'll ever find ya there."

With a small chitter of acknowledgement, the spider waved its forelegs at the boy.

* * *

It had taken a week, but he had finally created a safe place to look after his new friend, without the other Hufflepuffs noticing.

His new friend, newly christened Aragog, was enjoying the open space immensely. Already, he had begun to spring up, almost becoming half-again in size, far from the weedy little thing that Hagrid had found in the woods.

He smiled at his friend as he spun another intricate web.

"'ll be keepin ya a scecret." spoke Hagrid, as he watched the spider work. "'m good at keeping secrets."


	15. 12DoC: Day 9: Part of Their World

_Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch._

 _Details: (Need it for the challenge)_

 _Soul, Uagadou, Biloko_

 _12 Days of Christmas: Day 9: Write about Arthur Weasley_

* * *

The Burrow was always a bustle of activity. Sometimes, far too much activity.

When she had last checked, the Ronald was currently running about in panic, whereas the twins were busy being chewed out by Mrs Weasley. Somehow, one of their concoctions had managed to spill, and eat through the floor of their room. Luckily, it had failed to eat all the way through to Ginny's room. Still, there was a concerning discoloration on her room's roof.

Unwilling to be crushed underfoot from the panicking redheads, Hermione quietly excused herself, and wandered off, away from the center building, and towards the rest of the property.

First, she checked the chickens. Unlike the stories of the Muggle chicken farms she had read and heard about, the Wizarding chicken coop was relatively clean: perhaps magic working overtime? She couldn't imagine wanting to slop through the filth of such a coop by hand.

Still, watching the birds wander around did little to ease her boredom, and the shouts from inside of the building had not yet begun to abate. Perhaps, she thought to herself, now would be the time to check out Mr Weasley's fabled shed?

The shed was a mere minute's walk away from the chicken coop, a small, squat building with a slanted wooden roof. Shrugging her shoulders slightly, she quietly unlocked the shed with a charm, and walked in.

Along the walls of the shed were dozens of things she could recognise, from hairbrushes, to electric toothbrushes, to even a few things she truly wished she hadn't recognised from one of the adult magazines that were occasionally left in the wrong section at the public library. The shed had them all, and below each item was a label penned in a hasty scrawl.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" came the voice from behind her. Arthur Weasley, likely here to escape from his wife's rampage, she as she was, stepped into the shed behind her. "It took me a long time to collect as much of this stuff as I could. The rest of the Wizards say that Muggles don't have anything to teach us. I don't believe that."

Hermione stepped out of the way, as Arthur reached forward to grab one of the many baubles. "Oh! See this?" he spoke, as he retrieved a silver wristwatch, "This is what they call a Wrist-Watcher."

Hermione was about to correct the man, but bit back down her objection. Here, in front of her, was a perfect example to see her culture from an outside source. Historians would _kill_ for an occasion such as this. Never mind that Mr Weasley had somehow managed to forget that her _parents_ were muggles, and that it really made no sense that he was explaining what _muggle_ things did to her.

So, rather than correct the mistaken man, she merely nodded, before pointing in a random direction and stating, "What is that?"

Mr Weasley's eyebrows receded into his hairline as he reached forward to grab something. He retrieved the remote, flipped it over once, and then studied it.

"Oh, yes. This. From what I can tell, it's like a wand for the Felly-Tision, usable my muggles! I've never managed to get the thing to work." he stated, mouth wide in glee. "Still, I think I'll figure out its secrets some day."

"And that?" asked Hermione, pointing directly at a corkscrew.

"That, I'm pretty sure is a muggle weapon of some kind. I don't know what it's used for, but I don't want to know." shuddered Arthur.

"Amazing. And what about that?" the next object was a jack-in-the-box.

"I'm not entirely sure what that is, because I've never managed to get it to open." admitted Arthur. "I think it's a toy, but I'm not sure what for."

"And that!" chirped Hermione, as she pointed towards a silver fork. "Is that a dinglehopper?"

Arthur reddened for a moment, before stating, "Oops. So _that's_ where that fork went. I should probably put it back."

Then he blinked. "Dinglehopper?"

Hermione colored slightly, before excusing herself. Still, to anyone who was close enough, they could faintly hear her, slightly off tune, humming the soundtrack of a popular broadway musical.

Meanwhile, Arthur was still in the shed. "Dinglehopper?"


End file.
